


Sherlock and John in Love and Being Silly

by shouldbeover



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Comedy, Humor, M/M, Romance, relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-04
Updated: 2012-07-03
Packaged: 2017-11-09 03:36:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/450809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shouldbeover/pseuds/shouldbeover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just bringing over all of my stories to AO3.  These have all appeared at fanfiction.net and at LiveJournal.com.</p><p>Each chapter is a separate short, humorous smutty piece.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Inattention => Incoherence

“So, if the missing woman really did need money that badly, if what her associates say is true—which isn’t always the case—then we can assume that she DID speak to her brother about it because…”

John was having a great deal of difficulty concentrating on what Sherlock was saying when he was so distracted by how Sherlock’s knees were slightly parted, and the dressing gown was only playing peek-a-boo with the skin on Sherlock’s inner thigh not really covering it at all and the fact John knew that Sherlock was pantless, entirely naked in fact, beneath that dressing gown.

“Now, the brother said that he hadn’t spoken to her for almost a month. We know that she disappeared seven and a half days ago, but because she lived alone, no one noticed for…”

John slid off the couch so that he was sitting at Sherlock’s knees. He slid his hand up Sherlock’s thigh just high enough to touch the stiff, curly hairs.

“…but if the brother— John? Are you listening?”

“Mmm, go on.” John parted Sherlock’s dressing gown so that he could see Sherlock’s cock. It was limp and wrinkled up, but John was remembering it an hour before, long and rigid in his mouth and throat while Sherlock was making desperate noises above him. He remembered Sherlock’s face as John stroked him in time with his thrusts, eyes rolled back, mouth open with no sound coming out at all, such a rare occurrence that John’s rhythm nearly broke, but not enough to make Sherlock command that he move faster or harder.

“…then the fact that he had that particular brand of floor polish in his house…”

John sat up a little so that he could lean over and take Sherlock’s penis in his mouth. He could feel it harden and fill across his tongue as the capillaries surged with blood. Such a fascinating mechanism as Sherlock (or Spock) would say. The pleasure ensuring that the species would continue to pursue the activity and thus reproduce.

“John, I don’t think that you are paying attention at all.”

“Oh, I’m paying attention,” John smiled, looking up. “Just not to your words.”

“Well, what is the point of my talking if you’re not going to listen?”

“The skull ignores you too. He told me. Anyway, you said it just helps you to talk aloud,  
so, please continue. I can do this at the same time. No worries.”

Sherlock gave him a skeptical look, but went on in a remarkably calm voice for a man who was now entirely hard and being sucked on by his lover.

“Um, where was I? Oh, yes, the floor polish, coupled with the very dirty floor…”

John entirely lost himself in the sensation of Sherlock’s cock in his mouth, running his tongue across the tip and under the head, teeth scraping lightly along the length. All the things he knew that Sherlock liked. Sherlock’s hips shifted a little and started meeting John’s thrust with a tiny push of their own, but the rich, baritone continued evenly on above him. Damn, if that wasn't nearly as sexy as Sherlock moaning.

“…therefore the brother knew, but didn’t do anything about it. I need to text Lestrade!”

“It can wait three minutes,” John commanded, then returned to his duties. He was stroking himself now, frantically, and if he could just…

“But it makes all the difference!”

“Two minutes,” John bargained.

“But—“

“One!”

“But that means that he, I mean she, I mean— I, oh, I’m going— OH, FUCK!”

John had to chuckle as Sherlock’s come flooded his mouth. He kept his mouth on Sherlock’s spasming cock well beyond the point of comfort despite Sherlock’s incomprehensible gurgling. Well, he could just suffer for a few moments more. And yes, oh, yes, he was there, there, yes. He collapsed against Sherlock’s knees as he rode out his own orgasm.

“Now you can text Lestrade.”

“Can’t remember…”

“What you were going to say?”

“No,” Sherlock moaned, head thrown back against the of the couch, “how to text.”

John smiled. That was so going on his LiveJournal.

 


	2. Of the Bible, dinosarus and Bentleys (nothing to do with Anderson--God, I hate that meme)

Sherlock was so monumentally bored. He was sprawled, as was his wont, across the couch, but he wasn’t shooting walls or adding nicotine patches. No his addiction was something else these days, namely a 5’ 7”, muddy blonde, blue-eyed doctor who was currently NOT HOME.

**When are you coming home?  
SH**

**Why?  
JW **

**BORED  
SH**

**Probably 20 minutes. Do you want me to grab anything?  
JW **

**Yes.  
Me.  
SH **

**:D  
JW**

John came in, as promised, 20 minutes later. He was so delightfully, regimentally prompt. Sherlock smiled languidly at him. He’d contemplated actually laying across John’s bed but he loved seeing John’s face as he came into the flat--the way his face lit up when he saw Sherlock even if Sherlock was holding something quite disgusting, which was often.

John moved across the room and lay down on top of his lover, opening Sherlock’s knees with his own, and kissed him deeply and slowly, holding Sherlock’s jaw between his hands, his lovely, gentle doctor’s hands. Sherlock arched up into John’s body. He’d needed this all day, like a nicotine craving, like withdrawal. He started scrabbling at John’s trousers, but John grabbed his hands and pinned them to his sides.

“You’re always so impatient, Sherlock. For everything. You should really learn to enjoy the journey. It may all be transport, but sometimes the journey is better than the destination.”

John kissed him again, ground their hips together, but in a slow, measured way, gently rocking them together. John did let Sherlock unbutton his shirt, but would stop him every time Sherlock’s hands went lower. John finally unbuttoned Sherlock’s shirt so that their chests were pressed together, so they could nuzzle each other’s necks, kiss along collar bones, suck on bare skin. All the while their hips rocked together, tantalizing but amazingly intimate as well.

At last John sighed into Sherlock’s neck, his hips thrusting involuntarily, and whispered, “Dry humping is quite nice, isn’t it? But I think it might be time to get to our destination, so to speak. Shall we adjourn to the bedroom?”

Sherlock could barely reply. “Yes,” came out as a breathy half gasp, half giggle.

John reluctantly pulled himself away from Sherlock’s body, leaning in for one more kiss, as Sherlock sat up. John laughed and pulled away, practically running upstairs, leading Sherlock for once, but once inside the room Sherlock had him against the wall, unbuttoning John’s jeans and dropping to his knees in moments.

And oh, Sherlock’s mouth was over John’s aching cock; the slow build had John shuddering with an intense orgasm in moments. “Oh, fucking Jesus, God!”

Wiping his mouth, Sherlock leapt up from his knees with that amazing athletic grace and grabbing John’s hand pulled him back to the bed where John was more than happy to return the favor, undoing Sherlock’s trousers and inhaling his lover, swallowing him whole. He was happy to hear Sherlock’s cries as he too came wildly, thrashing his hips and grabbing John’s hair. He looked forward all day to rendering Sherlock incoherent.

John slid up the bed and curled around Sherlock, resting his head against Sherlock’s chest as their breathing settled back to normal. It was like high school, wasn’t it? Still half dressed and desperate.

“I’m rather amazed that you didn’t grow up Catholic, John, from your, uh, prayers,” Sherlock murmured. “I don’t recall Jesus doing much fucking when I read the bible.”

John sat up on one elbow and looked up at Sherlock. “Wait, you don’t know the earth goes around the sun, but you’ve read the Bible?”

“Many serial killers are at least partially schizophrenic, hearing voices which tell them what to do. Often these voices are interpreted as being religious in origin. I felt it was helpful to know where they might be drawing their imagery. I also recall that the bible is rather clear on the sun going ‘round the earth.”

“No, no, you’re spot on there. Not a lot of accurate astronomy in the Bible,” he paused, “my prayers, notwithstanding, you have to admit that delaying gratification did lead to a certain intensity.”

“Yes, very clever ‘experiment,’ my dear John.”

“Oh, shut up, smart arse.”

“Do you find my arse smart?”

“I find your arse many things, Sherlock. Firm, delectable, graspable, sensitive, soft and damned erotic, but unless you are a Stegosaurus, no, it probably is not literally ‘smart.’”

“A what?”

“A Stego— don’t tell me. You find dinosaurs irrelevant. Right, _Jurassic Park_ tomorrow night. It has Sam Neil in it. You liked him in _Reilly_.  
What if someone was killed with a dinosaur bone, or crushed by a collapsing dinosaur display or something. Wouldn’t you feel silly then?”

“I rather think that both of those scenarios are highly improbable.”

“But NOT, impossible.”

“No, not impossible,” Sherlock sighed, “alright John, I look forward to this edifying documentary tomorrow.”

“Did you mean it?”

“What, that I look forward to it? Erm, no.”

“No, that I am you dear John.”

They looked in each others eyes for a moment. “Yes, you are my dearest John. My truest and dearest friend, the love of my life. The only love of my life. And I am your Sherlock.”

“Well, that’s good,” laughed John, lightly breaking the tension, “because, you know, if your body is just transport for your lovely brain, then yours is a Bentley. And you know what they say about a Bentley, don’t you?”

“No,” Sherlock responded with a warm smile.

“It’s a damn good ride. I intend to take you around the block until your shocks give out.”

 


	3. The Scientific Method (five of Sherlock's experiements and one of John's)

Subject: 39 year old male, 1.7 m, 68 k (10 st 1 lb)  
1) Is it possible to undo subject's clothes using only one's teeth?  
Hypothesis: Yes  
Test: Oh, yes  
Analysis: More difficult than expected due to subject's wriggling  
Next Step: Try when subject restrained  


2) Is it possible to remove subject's pajamas using only one's toes?  
Hypothesis: Yes  
Test: Of course  
Analysis: More difficult than expected due to subject's erection  
Next Step: Try again only faster  


3) Is there a difference in taste when eating food off of one's lover's back?  
Hypothesis: No  
Test: Variety of sweet substances applied while subject asleep, tasted  
Analysis: Distinct taste of salt in everything, flavors blended together due to subject waking up and moving about  
Next Step: Try other foods, test effect of one's lover eating off of you.  


4) Is it possible to make someone come without touching them?  
Hypothesis: Yes  
Test: Oh, God, yes.  
Analysis: Test abandoned at crucial juncture  
Next Step: Try again.  


5) Is it possible for someone else to make you come without touching you?  
Hypothesis: Probably  
Test: Oh, please.  
Analysis: Oh, oh, oh, John, please.  
Next Step: Repeat experiment several times to chart endurance  


+1)  
How fast will a 34 year old male (1.82m, 62 k) come when restrained naked to the bedposts by his own ties in army tent knots?  


Let's find out. 

* * *

****

(The experiments themeselves)

* * *

5)

"The parameters are these…" said Sherlock as John slipped into his comfy chair for what he had thought was going to be a quiet evening.

"Yer, what now?"

"The parameters are that you mustn't move or touch me until I say you can."

"Is this one of your experiments, because you know, I'm not really a head in a breadbox."

"It was fingers in the breadbox, and yes it is an experiment, but you'll like it, I promise. Just trust me."

"In the time we have known one another, I have trusted you into shooting someone, being shot at, getting a criminal record, running for my life, beating up a complete stranger, being tied up—and not in a fun way-"

"John, we'll be in our own apartment. What could happen here?"

John continued as if he hadn't been interrupted, "-being scorched, burned, poisoned, gagged, AND shot at in my own apartment!"

"Please, John?" Said Sherlock in that soft, rich voice that twisted John's insides and lower down as well. "If you don't like it, just say stop and I will stop. Deal?"

"Al right, but no reneging!"

John gripped the sides of his chair. He felt braced for anything that Sherlock could throw at him, literally or figuratively. What he did not expect was for Sherlock to kneel in front of him, lean in and start to nibble on his shirt. The soft, sweet smell of Sherlock's exhalations on his neck made him grip the chair tighter. Why hadn't Sherlock said it was one of THOSE experiments?

"Sherlock, I…"

"Shhh, John, it will be easier if you don't speak." Again he felt Sherlock's teeth on his shirt.

"It's not edible, if that's what you're testing."

"Shhhhnnn," and with a little gasp he realized that Sherlock had undone the top button using only his teeth. Bit by bit Sherlock worked down the front of John's shirt, pulling the button hole half off of the button with his teeth and then pushing the button through with his tongue. By the time he was far enough down for John to see what he was doing, John was already panting. At John's waistband, Sherlock pulled out the shirt tails, still using his teeth and worked through the last two buttons. He leisurely leaned over and did the cuff buttons as well, but now the great detective seemed slightly stumped. John lifted a hand, but Sherlock shot him a warning glance.

Decided, Sherlock bent over John's jeans and worked his mouth over the brass button that was strained against the button hole now with the tightness of John's pants. He concentrated for a minute. John could only see Sherlock's dark hair bobbing over his crotch. He heard himself moan. Well, moaning hadn't been forbidden. But then Sherlock thrashed his head from side to side, and John's hips involuntarily moved, writhing beneath the warm onslaught on his pants and the images in his head.

And then Sherlock sat up in triumph, the button held between his grinning teeth. He spit it out and went back down to John's lap to work down the zipper pull. Tut-tutting and gripping John's hips with his hands to keep him from moving.

"Well, I think I've proven that that can be done, although you did make it more difficult. Next time I shall have to restrain you" he said, sitting up, "unfortunately I don't think I can actually get you out of your clothes without your help. I will have to think about that problem.

"Oh, and you can move now."

"You lunatic," growled John and tackled him to the floor.

4)

John came back from the shower dressed only in his pajama bottoms and Sherlock's robe, which practically dragged on the floor. He was drying his blonde hair with a towel, and so at first didn't see the Sherlock sprawled across his bed. It startled him, but by now it wasn't an unfamiliar sight. Sherlock was dressed in his pajama bottoms and a grey t-shirt. He reached out to John with his feet.

"Stand right there," he said, tapping John in the tummy with his toe.

"Sherlock, this isn't one of your silly games, is it? Because I'm really tired and I have to get up early, so just stop whatever you're playing at and scoot over."

"Just hold still!" Sherlock's prehensile toes started working on the knot of the dressing gown, tugging at one loop and then the other trying to get it loose enough to slip apart. John watched fascinated, wishing alternately that he'd tied a more complicated knot or an easier one. Good, God, the man had erotic feet. Was that even possible? Just watching them move over the belt, occasionally brushing his stomach was getting him hard. Very hard.

Sherlock was concentrating determinedly, his tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth as if he were five, bracing himself on the bed with his hands to get the most range and leverage out of his long legs and feet. At last, with a childish cry of triumph, he gave a last pull and the belt fell away. Sherlock shimmied down the bed a little more-now, practically on his back-and pushed the robe off of John's shoulders. John had to wiggle his arms free but Sherlock's lovely toes certainly helped.

John was now dressed in only his pj bottoms, and he suspected he wasn't going to get away that easily.

Sure enough, Sherlock's toes reached out and made easy work of the simple drawstring knot. But the pants didn't fall away fluidly as Sherlock had clearly expected. Instead, they stayed pinned up by John's erection, causing Sherlock to have to tug on both sides of the pajamas to get them down. Which was rather uncomfortable.

So John pushed the feet away and worked on getting Sherlock's pajamas off instead, but he didn't use his toes.

3)

Sherlock moved into the room as quietly as a cat with the same stealth he used to creep up on London criminals. In his hands he carried a breakfast tray which he placed on the ground next to the bed and removed the cloth.

John slept on, face down on the bed. His pale yummy, er, muscled back was golden in the light from the reading lamp. He was snoring slightly, deep in REM sleep, perfect.

Sherlock applied the Fluff first to John's upper left back on the theory that it was room temperature and had a flesh like texture. When that seemed to do nothing to disturb John, he moved through the other items on the tray. A little Reddi Whip that he put in his own hand first to avoid shooting nitrous-oxide directly onto John's back. A bit of marmalade, and to be balanced a bit of strawberry jam. John seemed to stir a bit from the cold of that, and Sherlock was afraid he would shift around so much that the food would slide off, but he settled back when Sherlock stroked his hair. Finally the chocolate syrup which pooled into the hollow at the base of John's spine. That seemed as good a place to start as any.

Sherlock ran his tongue through the warm chocolate. The light salt on John's back made it taste like a candy bar with Sea Salt which was not altogether unpleasant. He tried the marmalade next. He really liked marmalade. Though there was still the slight taste of salt, it offset the tang of the citrus quite nicely. He worked at the marmalade spot for some time—it seemed important to get all of the stickiness off. Sitting back, he realized that he'd left a fair sized bruise on John's lower right back.

He tried the Fluff next, but it was most unsatisfactory—coming up pretty much in one piece, but with some slightly resistant spots on John's back that were going to be sticky and collect lint if not washed off.

That left the strawberry jam and the whipped cream, and what was left of the chocolate syrup.

Unfortunately at that moment John shifted, trying to sit up.

"No, no, John, you'll get it on the sheets!"

"I'll get what on the sheets?" cried John with a slight panic in his voice.

"The jam!"

There was a pause.

In a quiet and controlled voice, John asked, "Sherlock, why is there jam on my back?"

"I wanted to see if foods would taste differently if eaten off your back."

"And do they?"

"Saltier than I expected. And now the jam and the whipped cream and the chocolate have all run together in the small of your back."

"That sounds like a sundae topping. Are you going to clean it up?"

John shuddered as a tongue ran down the sides of his lower back and swirled against his spine.

"Oh, yes, it really is just like eating a sundae."

"Just don't try it with ice cream, ok?"

"Mmmm"

"Sherlock, hurry up. I need to roll over, and then…and then, I think we should find out what happens if I eat off of you."

"Oh."

2)

"Ok, tell me the parameters again. Just so I'm clear."

"Can I make you come without touching you AND without you touching yourself?"

"So no touching of any kind, then?"

"Well, you can remove your clothes if necessary but absolutely no touching of the genitals or sensitive spots. In fact, why don't you just take your clothes off now in order to avoid an accident ruining the results.

"But I will feel silly just sitting here naked in the drawing room. It might alter the results."

"The fire's going nicely, the door is shut and the curtains are drawn. And anyway, I expect to be naked soon as the catalyst, so you won't feel silly for long."

Assailed by the logic, John stood up, removed his jumper, t-shirt and jeans, folded them neatly and put them on the coffee table."

"Everything, John."

"You know, you sound like Mycroft when you say my name that way."

"Shut-up."

"And that."

Sherlock glared at him and then at the fire in a most pointed way.

John sighed. There really was no way out of this, was there. He removed his briefs and placed them on top of his clothes. Then he felt quite ridiculous in trainers and socks, so he took them off too and sat back down in his chair.

This was so absolutely not going to work. He was cold, more than a little embarrassed and even a bit humiliated. How Sherlock thought he was going to get worked up enough to come with no tactile stimulation was beyond him.

And then Sherlock turned from the fireplace to face him and tilted his head back in the leatherette chair that he favored. His eyes were shut and his ivory face was lit from the fireplace in little flickering jumps of color. He stretched gently so that his body was a plank from his heels resting on the floor in those lovely, expensive shoes, up the dark, slender trousers, over the form fitting white shirt with its open collar. He templed his long white fingers together under his chin as if contemplating a particularly difficult puzzle. Then he brought them up to his lips for a moment, pursing his lavender colored mouth in a slight moue that emphasized their fullness. His dark fringe of hair was spread across his forehead as if he had just run his nimble fingers through it, scattering it back in an alluring dishabille. Those perfect cheek-bones and turned up nose were lit to good effect and the silver cat eyes, which now snapped open, were full of undisguised lust, and John realized that this experiment might turn out differently than he had originally thought.

Sherlock ran his tongue around his lips briefly and then undid the top button of his shirt, paused for a moment and then undid the next. He ran his right finger along his left collar bone in what seemed like an absent gesture, but John knew it was anything but. At times Sherlock seemed utterly oblivious to his physical effect on people, but at others, he was fully capable of exploiting it. Sherlock tilted his head to the right and slowly rolled up his sleeves to his elbows. The slim arms were free of nicotine patches. Somehow the perfectly casual gesture seemed more erotic than if he'd ripped his clothes off. As if he were offering himself—his proof of his commitment—to John.

John's mouth was quite dry and he noticed with satisfaction that the silver eyes were nearly black with enlarged pupils. Of course, that only revealed Sherlock's success in the experiment.

Sherlock undid the rest of his buttons, slowly but deliberately and un-tucked his shirt. John hoped he wouldn't take it all the way off, not yet. The white on white of the shirt against his skin in the fire's glow was magical.

As if he could hear John's thoughts he left it hanging open and moved on to his shoes, kicking them off and then working his socks down with those talented toes. He undid his trousers and then lifted his hips from the chair and slipped them off, letting them drop unheeded to the floor.

Now he was naked except for his shirt which swung open to reveal the taught, flat stomach, the ribs, so revealed that John could count every one, even see the shape of the sternum beneath the flesh. The rose colored nipples were rigid and John could taste them his mouth, imagining Sherlock's groans.

Sherlock was half hard already. He sat back in the chair now and slid a hand between his legs, toying briefly in the black hairs then gripping his penis firmly to stroke gently at his erection, spreading his legs and sprawling in the chair. He reached for the lubricant that he had placed at hand.

Good God, the man was right—John thought he might just come from watching his lover masturbate. He was already so hard, had been since the shirt had been undone, that his balls ached. He so wanted to touch himself, more, he wanted to touch Sherlock. He wanted to lick Sherlock's throat, trace his tongue down the collar bone, down the chest, flick his tongue over the nipples and move further down to wrap his mouth around Sherlock's hard penis.

Meanwhile, Sherlock had himself quite worked up already—the lubricant making him even harder, imagining John's wet mouth. His cock was straining in his hand, while he ran his other hand across his flat abdomen. His hand was moving faster now, and his head was rolling back and forth in a sort of delirium. He was so close. He looked at John, his beloved, adorable John. John who was so lovely and didn't know it, with his funny turned up nose and wide, wide eyes. And that precious mouth, that precious, kissable mouth. With a desperate cry of "John," Sherlock came, feeling the hot come splatter against his belly.

He peeked at John. John's mouth hung open slightly. He was gripping his soft chair so tightly that his fingers were sunk into the stuffing. He was hunched forward, his erection straining against his belly—that really was cheating—those large eyes, staring at Sherlock slightly glazed.

Oh, God, fuck the experiment. He was out of his chair and over to John in an instant, straddling him awkwardly in the chair. John obligingly slid down so Sherlock could press his knees down on either side of his hips, locking them both in the chair. Sherlock smeared himself with lube quickly and slid down on the other man's penis making them both cry out.

It was over in moments. John too tortured to do much more than grip Sherlock's narrow hip bones and thrust upwards to meet him.

Sherlock collapsed against him, clutching the shorter man's head to his chest and whispering, "John, John, John…"

John refrained from pointing out that Sherlock had ruined the experiment.

1)

"Ah, so this time I get to torture you."

"I really don't see why you're calling it torture. It's not like you didn't enjoy it."

"No, but the experiment was abandoned, wasn't it?"

Sherlock looked away, annoyed. He could be such a child.

"All right," said John. "Let's get this on, shall we? Same parameters, you can't touch yourself OR me and I get to do anything short of touching you to make you come. Right?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied rather sulkily.

"And it's supposed to be fun, right?"

Small nod.

"So strip and get in the chair."

Sherlock complied, quickly and carelessly. Tossing those ridiculously expensive clothes onto the none-too-clean floor and sitting down in the chair, legs slightly open, bored look on his face, as if to say, 'bring it on.'

"Sherlock, you do know that they say the brain is the most important sex organ, don't you?"

"Who's they?"

"Shut-up."

"If I shut-up then I can't answer the question."

"It was rhetorical. Look, do you want to do this or not?"

Another small nod.

John had considered the slow strip-tease, but abandoned it. It wasn't that he was ashamed of his body. It was alright, still soldier toned, but there was the scar and he sometimes felt rather dumpy next to Sherlock, although Sherlock claimed that John was terribly sexy. Besides, it would feel like copying. He was really going to put that lovely brain to use.

"Sherlock, I want you to tell me about your favorite times with me, having sex."

Sherlock smirked a little. Clearly he thought that this was going to be easy.

"Our first time."

"Yes? What about it? As I recall it was rather awkward. Two men who had never had sex with other men, trying to figure it out."

"It was awkward and I hated not knowing what I was doing, and I kept saying that I should do more research, and you said that hands on was better, and oh, hands on was so much better. Kissing you had felt so good, from the first time and I could feel all sorts of wild things in my body that I'd never felt, never thought I could feel. And we were just exploring each other, and you were so patient and so understanding, the way you always are with me. And it was slow and intense, and yet sort of desperate at the same time. And I still can't seem to find the right words for it."

Sherlock stopped sharply. He hadn't meant to babble quite like that. And thinking about it was making him harden just a little. Just in warm response to the memory of John's mouth and hands, the momentary pause when the hurdles came and then John charging in with all his bravery. And then the panting, gasping pleasure of IT. The way they seemed to have been born to fit together, as if all the loneliness and awkwardness he had ever felt was erased by this wonderful man who had entered his life.

"Do you remember the time you pulled me into that alley? After we went to that movie that I said was predictable and you said was supposed to be appreciated, not solved."

"Yes, I remember," John smiled—he could see the reactions in Sherlock's body and feel them in his. "Oh, and it was 'Citizen Kane.' It's considered one of the finest movies ever made. But, do go on—about the alley, I mean."

"You pulled me down that alley. It was so unlike you. You pulled me to you and said I was an idiot, wrapping us both in my coat. I leant in to kiss you, thinking that was all you wanted, but then I realized that you were unzipping both our trousers and stroking me hard. You stood practically on tip-toe and I had to bend my knees, but I knew what you wanted. You had that funny little bottle of lube that I'd made you go in and buy the day before—because you refused to buy it together. You pulled me into you. The position made you so tight, especially when you hooked your leg over my hip. Just thrusting into you, there, with people passing not more than 12 or 15 meters away was incredibly exciting. And you whispered, 'I love you,' as you came."

"Mmmm…"

"Another time, after that case of the disappearing store front. We came in and we were laughing because Anderson and Donovan had been so dumbfounded when you had the answer instead of them. I think you were a little high on it. We just fell on each other as we came through the door. We knocked something off the wall. I just wanted to celebrate you—my clever, sarcastic, absolutely brilliant John—and I pulled you on top of me, onto the couch. We almost ruined the inside of my coat."

"Oh, and that time I was bored—it had been three weeks since a case. And I was just lying on the couch when you came in. You dropped your coat and lay down on me, nudging my legs apart. Kissing me and we just lay there, rubbing against one another. Dry humping, I think you called it. God, it was lovely."

"Sherlock," John breathed, "Sherlock, I want you to look at me."

John unfastened his jeans and pushed them down so that he could release his rigid cock and tight balls. He looked up to make sure that Sherlock was watching and looked into Sherlock's luminous eyes, unfathomably deep, now that the pupils were dilated. He flicked his thumb over the tip to smear the pre-cum and started to stroke himself, slowly at first.

"Tell me what you like. Tell me what you want me to do right now, or to do to me right now."

Sherlock leant forward a little in his chair, eyes eager. His rigid penis was really straining, now, dark with blood.

"I want you to kiss me first, to open my mouth with your tongue and then suck on mine. Then I want you to tilt my head back so you can kiss and bite my neck, my jaw bone, breathe in my ear, tongue my ear.

"I want you to grip my wrists as you kiss your way down my chest, down my belly, and, I know you. You won't take me in your mouth then, even though we both want you to. You'll kiss my thighs; tongue the backs of my knees. You may even lick my calves. I'll be shaking by now."

Sherlock shut his eyes. He was shuddering as he spoke.

"Sherlock," said John, sharply, "Sherlock, you have to watch me while you speak."

Sherlock obeyed, watching John's hands as they moved over his cock. "Then, you'll take me in your mouth. I'm so hard, please, John. You'll release my hands so I can run my fingers through my hair, claw at your back, pulling you down on me.

"I love your tongue. You use it so well. And you'll stroke my balls, the insides of my thighs as you suck on me."

Sherlock's knuckles were white, struggling not to touch himself. Then I'll push you back and fall on you on the floor."

"I want to grip your hips as I push into you. Kiss your nipples; grip your buttocks, pulling myself deeper into you. Kiss you on the mouth as I come, pushing my moans into your mouth."

John really couldn't help himself. He came, jerkily, gasping at the sight of Sherlock in front of him, so desperate to take him.

Sherlock went on, as John lay back, panting. "Then, still inside you, I'll stroke you so you come again. Crying my name, I want you to scream my name so that Mrs. Hudson, the whole street hears you. Oh, please."

When he had recovered, John moved towards Sherlock. He could see Sherlock's face, hopeful that the experiment would be abandoned again. But instead, John went around behind him, leant in to breathe on Sherlock's lovely neck staying just back just out of reach. He moved down Sherlock's arm breathing, blowing the hairs. Sherlock tried to reach up, to grab John's head, but John ducked away, tutting.

John moved so that he was sitting at Sherlock's knees.

"Oh, oh, oh, John, please, please let me come."

"That's really up to you, isn't it, Sherlock. You and your lovely mind."

John leant in and breathed, oh so gently, on Sherlock's cock and Sherlock came violently, spattering his stomach, groaning John's name.

John finally leant in then, licking the come from his lover's cock, his taught stomach. Sherlock was practically whimpering. John took pity and reached up, pulling Sherlock's head to his and kissing him so that Sherlock could taste himself on John's tongue.

"15 minutes, not bad, Sherlock. And neither of us broke this time. I think this rather proves that I am a bit stronger than you."

"Obviously both experiments will need to be repeated to chart our endurance."

+1

Oh his hands and knees John dug in the back of Sherlock's closet. He only had two ties himself and he needed at least four and preferably six. Despite having never seen him in one, John was certain that a man as sartorially inclined as Sherlock must have some and indeed, in the back of the closet he found a bag of quite expensive ties from shops that John had never been in for fear that he would set off some sort of alarm—your sort not welcome here. Most were twisted beyond the repair of the best cleaners. There were also a couple not even removed from the box. A pretty gold box had bits of Christmas wrapping paper stuck to it. He opened it and a card fell out:

"To dearest Sherlock, do make an effort this year, for my sake, love Mummy." He gently put that one back where he had found it even though it was an exquisite shade of purple, shot through with a metallic emerald that would look lovely on Sherlock's bare skin.

He selected four of the softest, and then, on reflection, two more. Sherlock's were so much softer and nicer than his.

He had to wait weeks for his chance. Sherlock so seldom slept and he was in the middle of a particularly difficult case.

At last it was over and Sherlock was passed out after one of their epic suck and fucks that seemed to succeed cases these days. Sherlock was on his back, spread across the bed, one arm by his side. The other bent at the elbow, the hand resting by his head. With all the delicate tenderness of a surgeon, John gently took the upper arm and moved it out and tied the wrist securely to the tie he had already bound to the bed post. Sherlock mumbled a little, but didn't wake.

John had managed to secure both legs by the time Sherlock woke.

"Wha—," managed Sherlock before John had seized the remaining limb firmly and bound it as well.

John straddled Sherlock's horizontal form. "I know you are quite talented as an escape artist, Sherlock, but I have tied those in army tent knots and I hope that you will have difficulty…or enjoy yourself too much to try to get free." He smiled wickedly.

"Now, do you want me to blindfold and gag you, or do you want to see what I'm doing and make appreciative sounds?"

Sherlock's eyes widened.

"First, I'm going to make you come as fast as I can, then I'm going to make you come as slowly as I can: look I have my stopwatch! And then, if you're very good, I will take my pleasure with your lovely body. And perhaps, perhaps, I won't just leave you here tied up when I'm done."

  



	4. Helps Me Think

“Of course! She must have tied it to the cat’s collar in the night!” cried Sherlock.

John lifted his head, “Um, do you mind? Focusing here. Thought you were too. If I’m bothering you I could come back later (or not at all).”

“What? Oh, sorry, John. You should be happy. You make me think as well as nicotine patches only healthier.”

“Rather not, sorry. Happy about it, I mean.”

“I’m truly sorry,” the younger man’s eyes flashed mischievously. “Promise I’ll wait to text Lestrade until later. He slid his hands into the blonde man’s hair and pushed distinctly down.


	5. Doing the Shopping

On reflection, bringing Sherlock to a Sainsbury’s for shopping was not one of my brighter ideas, but it had seemed like such a good idea at the time. It was his card we were using after all, and I thought that perhaps if he saw how easy it was, he might be persuaded to try it on his own sometime.

I was quickly disabused of the idea of letting Sherlock loose in a supermarket by himself, by his tremendous delight in the contents of the butcher’s case—the cow brains, pig’s feet and tripe that it contained. It had clearly never occurred to him that such items could be locally purchased for experimentation. He also asked the butcher to find someone else to touch our meat as he, the butcher, clearly visited prostitutes on a regular basis and might be unclean. So no meat for awhile then.

To my horror I would turn to ask if he preferred oatmeal to Weetabix and whether he thought he could handle making regular oatmeal, or should I buy him instant, to discover him disappeared, in pursuit of some couple to tell them that one of them was a serial adulterer and the other should get away—it was far kinder now than later. I felt as if I were dragging a six year old rather than a 34 year old man except that I had no fear of a pedophile grabbing him, just someone punching him in the jaw. I had one nice old lady tell me how kind it was of me to be a minder to the autistic. And that’s what I felt like. At one point I actually offered him the chocolate animal crackers to appease him as we walked about .

He was deeply concerned with the trolley, particularly when I told him that he could not stand on the end as I pushed it as we weighed roughly the same and he was nearly six inches taller than I and it was going to capsize if he kept it up. At that he dropped to his knees declaring the design ‘rubbish’ and that it should have been cantilevered and perhaps a diamond shape on the wheels might be better. I had a horrible feeling that he was going to dump out the shopping and start removing the wheels then and there.

However, when I suggested that perhaps he could push it for a bit, to test drive it from the proper end, he discovered that he could take off on it like a scooter by leaning over and counter balancing with his upper body. Which he gleefully did, shouting over his shoulder that he hoped the shop would let him take one home as it would be so useful for carting body parts back from Bart’s. That earned some stares, let me tell you.

I ran after the flying figure—all Ichabod Crane on a shopping trolley—and caught up with him in the tea aisle where he was quite transfixed by the range on offer. I slid up behind him to tightly press against that lovely arse, so that what I was doing was hidden from the other shoppers.

I quickly slid my hand between his silk clad legs to cup his balls firmly, my thumb running over his arsehole, making him suck in his breath.

“Sherlock, I will take you home and do anything that you ask—“

“Even that one thing that—“

“Yes, even that, but only if you are very docile and walk beside me pushing the cart quietly until the shopping is done and then help me carry the bags home. The quicker we do this, the quicker we can go home. Do you understand?” I ran my thumb in a tight circle with a slight push making him shudder and lean over the cart for a moment as he nodded, before I took my hand away and moved back.

“Good, now let’s go.” I had a feeling that the shopping wasn’t going to be put away for sometime after we reached the flat.  



	6. It Just Wasn't Fair

“G’night, Sherlock, I’m going to bed,” John said as he shuffled to the doorway to head up to his room.

“Oh, good, we can have sex!” exclaimed Sherlock, bouncing to his feet.

“No, we can’t. I’m sorry, I’m just really tired tonight. Not as young as I used to be,” laughed John, trying to play it off.

“But I want to!” Sherlock complained petulantly.

God, thought John, if he stamps his foot I am out of here, this apartment, this relationship, this city.

“It will help you sleep. Besides,” continued Sherlock walking across the coffee table (someday that’s just going to snap under him, mused John) and striding up to John, “I can make you want to.”

The last was purred into John’s ear. It just wasn’t fair that Sherlock should look like that AND sound like a Bentley engine wrapped in silk and velvet AND be brilliant—and a horribly selfish and manipulative bastard.

But none of that mattered because Sherlock’s breath in his ear was having the desired effect, well, Sherlock’s desired effect.

“You do like it when I breathe in your ear, don’t you, John? And even better when I slide my tongue in…and swirl it around…and nip your earlobe…”

Damn him to hell, thought John. Yes, yes, now he was two-thirds hard and half of the way to taking Sherlock right there in the sitting room.

“You know, John, I’ve never known anyone get so aroused just from having someone breathe in their ear. Does it happen when anyone does it...or just me?”

“You know, Sherlock,” managed John with what was left of his self-control, which on reflection he shouldn’t have wasted on being snarky, “I haven’t actually had anyone I wasn’t shagging breathe in my ear. Shall we have Lestrade try it? Mycroft? Molly?”

Sherlock continued exploring John’s ear and moving down his throat, “No, no, I think measuring the response is enough for now, don’t you?” The last question was whispered in a voice so low and husky that John could feel it in his chest, like the bass at a concert when you’re in front of the speakers.

“Fine, let’s go to bed,” John turned his head for a kiss, but Sherlock was already dashing up the stairs, leaving John to turn off the telly and the lights and check that the stove wasn’t on and the door locked. It just wasn’t fair.

Although, a short time later, thrusting with Sherlock’s knees practically over his shoulders, John considered that the sex thing had been a rather good idea and would probably help him sleep

“I (unh) told (unh) you (unh) so (unh),” gasped Sherlock in between John’s thrusts. How could he look so smug while being shagged senseless? It just wasn’t fair.

 

 


	7. A Cherry in Whipped Cream

The first time John had kissed Sherlock’s neck, that impossible white, swan’s neck, Sherlock had whispered, “No marks, please, no marks.” It was a request that John was careful to honor, instead kissing scarlet circles onto Sherlock’s shoulder, on his chest well beneath the third button of his shirt, and anywhere else that wouldn’t be seen and commented upon. God knows it was sometimes hard to remember, when Sherlock’s throat smelled of fresh cotton and tasted like sweet cream. Or, even worse, tasted of sweat and burned with the flush of Sherlock’s arousal. And Sherlock _liked_ John’s mouth on his neck. He would tilt his head away to expose more of it to John’s questing tongue. But John would have to content himself with closed-lipped, delicate kisses and licks along the tendons until he was tasting his own saliva. He could nip along the underside of Sherlock’s jaw, or swirl circles in that delicate ear, but never bite or suckle the way he wanted.

But Sherlock never said anything about not marking his bum. And it really was too tempting, as white as every other centimeter of skin on his thin but rangy frame, but nicely defined with a pleasing roundness. It was even more fantastic when it was moist with the sweat from their exertions, presented like a perfect Valentine’s Day pillow for John’s head to rest upon as Sherlock lay face down, recovering.

John twirled his tongue in each of the little dimples on Sherlock’s buttocks, lapping away the salty taste. He opened his mouth, latched onto one plush cheek and let himself enjoy the sensation of pliant skin in his lips, so different from the hard skin covered bone of the rest of Sherlock’s body. There was a tiny pop at the release of suction when he finally pulled his mouth away. The dark red mark against Sherlock’s skin was like a cherry in whipped cream.

“John,” came a lazy rumble from further up the bed, “would you rather mark my arse or fuck it?”

There really was only one answer to that. A matching mark on the other cheek would have to wait.

 


	8. I Can't Take You Anywhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John go to the beach + a drabble under the same title where they go to Marseille. 

This was getting ridiculous. The middle-aged couple had passed by four times now, the young blonde twice and the elderly man looked like he might be settled on his bench for the afternoon. Yes, Sherlock looked like a supermodel, but he was clearly with John so they could just bugger off. There had been some mild flirting from girls, and ogling from some other men, but for the most part the rest had either been yanked away by their boyfriends (or girlfriends for that matter because, God knows Sherlock could turn a straight boy gay—he’d done it to John) and they’d been left alone.

It had been Sherlock’s idea to get out of the heat and humidity of the city for the day. John had been surprised because going to the playgrounds--gay playgrounds (once again John speculated on Sherlock’s previous experience but therein lay madness)--of Brighton hadn’t really seemed like a very Sherlock kind of thing to do. But Sherlock had persisted, and so they’d found themselves on the crowded train out of London at 8:30 that morning. John was dressed in his blue trunks which were long enough to be considered shorts and a beige t-shirt. Sherlock was dressed in a white t-shirt which was entirely too tight and transparent for John’s taste, and long swim trunks with…

…bees on them.

Bees. And not little realistic bees which might be understood given Sherlock’s interests. No, these were two inch long bees with big white, oval wings and happy, smiling faces on a black background. These were cartoon bees.

When Sherlock had gotten them out of the bottom drawer of his bureau John had been quite certain that he was going mad.

“You’re going to wear those?”

“These are my swim trunks. I didn’t think you’d want to go to the nudist beaches?”

“No, no, God, no. It’s just…just, well they’re a bit silly aren’t they? Silly for you.”

“You know that I admire bees. I saw these in the shops, they fit and I thought they might be fun.”

“You don’t do fun.”

“Wasn’t last night fun?”

Last night had involved something of a slow striptease and John was still trying to recover from it.

“Yes, yes, last night was more than fun. I guess what I mean is that you don’t do silly, not in your choice of clothes, certainly.”

Sherlock put on his hurt face.

“But they’re wonderful and you’ll look adorable in them,” John reached up to kiss Sherlock on the jaw. “Get dressed. I’m going to pack the blanket and umbrella, sunscreen and some bottles of water. We don’t want to miss the early train.”

So here they were on their blanket, under their umbrella and Sherlock was being ogled by half of the beach. The train ride had been bad enough, juggling the umbrella and the beach bag and being annoyed at the passengers who were openly staring at Sherlock’s neck and chest, and the ones that were trying not to laugh at his swim trunks. Sherlock was reading a book (and distinctly not helping to carry anything) and seemed to be unaware of the effect he was having. Of course, he could just be faking nonchalance. He did that.

Also, they might have been staring because Sherlock was so pale and John was seriously worried about Sherlock burning in the sun, but Sherlock pooh-poohed him. “I really don’t burn, John. Look, I even tan.” He held out his arm for John’s inspection.

There it was; the slightest outline of where Sherlock normally wore his watch. It was rather like trying to see the difference between ‘Milk’ and ‘French Vanilla’ on a paint chip card, but it could, with a squint, be construed as a tan.

“Do you feel like an ice cream cone?” John asked.

“No, I feel like me.”

“Smart arse, you know perfectly well what I mean and that it’s accepted vernacular.” What John meant was, ‘Can I get you to walk up to the promenade with me so that I can get all of these people to stop staring at you for a few minutes.’

“But in answer to your real question, I would like an ice cream cone. Get me chocolate.”

There was no point in arguing with Sherlock who had turned back to his book. He’d boxed himself into a corner and now he was going to have to leave Sherlock alone on the beach, like leaving a bloody steak amongst a, a…

“A shiver of sharks is the group term you’re looking for, John,” murmured Sherlock, still engrossed in his book.

John huffed, “Shut up.” Sherlock knew full well that John hated it when Sherlock seemed to read his mind. Just for that he wasn’t getting a 99 Flake.

So John stomped up the beach to the ice cream cone vendor, looking behind him frequently to make sure that Sherlock hadn’t been attacked.

As he walked back with the two cones, strawberry for him, the young blonde was definitely circling but backed off when John got closer. The couple had set themselves down a little ways up the beach and looked like they wanted to dine on Sherlock, and the elderly man was still on his bench.

“Ah,” said Sherlock, taking his cone, “I knew you’d get strawberry. What, no Flake?”

“You guessed, and you don’t deserve it.”

“I don’t guess. You will probably kiss me at some point this afternoon and you like the flavor of chocolate and strawberry mixed together in our mouths as opposed to vanilla and chocolate or double chocolate.”

John seethed. Sherlock read and they ate their ice cream cones in relative silence. John might have resolved not to kiss Sherlock for that, but he knew that he wouldn’t be able to hold to that resolution. Not when Sherlock was sitting there, one knee bent, long toes playing with the blanket, licking at his ice cream with his pink tongue.

Finally the cone was finished, although Sherlock insisted on licking the sugary drips off of his fingers, one by one. Although he didn’t want to look behind to check, John was quite certain that the couple were tracking every movement, probably had their binoculars out.

“I am going for a swim,” Sherlock announced stretching in a bow shape that would have done any Pilates devotee proud. He slipped his beach shoes back on and walked down to the sea.

John knew from experience that Sherlock could swim, but he was surprised at how well Sherlock cut through the water once he had waded out to his depth, arms moving in smooth arcs, head turning rhythmically until he was perhaps twenty or thirty meters out where the sea was relatively free of bathers.

Sherlock swam for about forty-five minutes and John let himself relax. It was unlikely that someone would hit on Sherlock out in the water.

And then Sherlock waded back in.

Like some pale, thin, homoerotic version of Ursusla Andress coming out of the ocean in Doctor No.

He even tossed the water out of his hair which had curled up into little ringlets. The trunks were pressed around his hips and thighs. Water glistened on the scatter of dark hairs on his chest and across his shoulders. Returning to the blanket, he flopped down on his stomach.

“Come with me,” John growled.

Sherlock looked surprised but got up when John pulled on his hand. John grabbed the beach bag, but left the umbrella and blanket. Someone could steal them for all he cared at that moment.

John dragged Sherlock along the beach to the dark shadows under the pier. There were used condoms scattered around. Clearly this place was used for this kind of thing often.

He pushed Sherlock roughly against one of the pillars and kissed him fiercely. Inside Sherlock’s mouth was burning hot compared to his chilled skin and his lips tasted of salt, but his tongue tasted of chocolate and then of strawberries. John shoved his hand into the ridiculous trunks and thanked God or whoever for elastic waistbands. Sherlock’s genitals were pulled up from the cold, but they soon warmed in John’s hands as John cupped Sherlock’s balls with his right hand and stroked up Sherlock’s prick with the other. It wasn’t gentle, but Sherlock didn’t seem to mind as he moaned and thrust his hips into John’s hand. When he came, he bit John’s shoulder to keep from crying out too loudly, although it was unlikely that anyone could hear over the sound of surf, the cry of the gulls and the calls of children.

Sherlock dropped into a crouch to try and protect his knees from the pebbles and who knew what else, to take John eagerly into his mouth, but John wanted more. He pulled Sherlock up and turned him around to hold onto the wood column. The only thing they had in the bag was sunscreen lotion and the doctor in John said that that was not something you wanted to smear on delicate tissue. He decided to try something that they’d occasionally done when Sherlock was sore. He pulled the trunks down to Sherlock’s knees.

“Close your legs,” he hissed.

Sherlock shivered in anticipation and brought his legs together tightly. John slid his cock between Sherlock’s thighs and thrust. It wasn’t as tight but it was hot and it let him just tease Sherlock’s arsehole and perineum with the friction. Far from perfect but enough and in a couple of minutes he was coming, semen running down Sherlock’s inner thigh.

For a minute or so they just stood panting. They pulled up their trunks without a word and Sherlock walked out into the bright sunshine with John following with the bag. Once his eyes adjusted, John could see just how debauched Sherlock looked. He only just gotten the trunks up and the waistband was on a slant leaving the top of his hip bare and probably came down to just over his pubic hair in the front. There was a broad red mark down his back from where he had been pressed into the pillar. There was a slight wobble in his step, but also a preening set of the head that said, ‘Guess what we’ve been doing.’

The view from the front was just as bad when John caught up to him and looked. He had a stupid smile on his puffy, red lips; and despite his crouch, his knees were red. John guided him past his admirers and back to their blanket and umbrella that was mercifully still there.

The blonde gave John a look that said, ‘Why you, when he could have me.’ The middle-aged couple glared at them, but the elderly gentlemen actually looked like he’d just settled down in front of his favorite movie. John didn’t want to think about what that meant.

Sherlock settled down with his head in John’s lap in a post-orgasmic lethargy. John discretely pulled the waistband of the swim trunks back up over his hip.

Yes, he’s with me, he thought out to the rest of the beach. His lips are swollen from where I kissed them, and the mark on my shoulders is from where he bit me as he came, and that’s my cum drying on his thigh.

“Stop thinking, John,” Sherlock mumbled, “It’s keeping me from sleeping.  I would have turned them away, you know. I only have eyes for you.”

John smiled happily.

****

John was surprised at how loudly the old springs of the brass bed in their room at the B&B in Marseille squeaked when the head board slammed against the wall. He worried that Sherlock screaming, “John!” as he came would be heard through the open windows. But probably those sounds hadn’t carried over the noises of the town.

Or so he thought, until they were leaving, Sherlock’s investigation into the theft of valuable artifacts from the Musee des Docks, over. The Proprietress smirked, “Hope you had a pleasant stay, _John_.” He knew he’d only written J. Watson on the register.  



End file.
